


My life as a fairytale

by naughtyspirit



Series: My Life as a Fairytale [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Date, First Kiss, M/M, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dedicated to lyriumoverdose as she asked very nicely for the following:</p><p>Johnlock, featuring Pizza, a Red Candle, a Mermaid and teenagers.</p><p>Sweetie, I hope I did you proud.</p><p>----</p><p>Sherlock takes John to Copenhagen, ostensibly for a case after John's latest girlfriend dumps him. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My life as a fairytale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyriumoverdose](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lyriumoverdose).



John Watson feels that today he is thoroughly done with women.

He quickly packs his clothes, aware that they're leaving in less than half an hour and that he isn't entirely sure if his passport is up to date. He's used to heading out at short notice but he thinks that there should be something more than, 'Denmark is stunning at this time of year, John,' before a ticket is flicked at his face. There's a red mark across his left eyebrow where the edge sliced into his skin and he should be angry, but the prospect of leaving London for a few days has its appeal. His pride is still stinging from yet another girlfriend ending it and John doesn't really relish the prospect of spending the next few days with nothing to do but to work out what went wrong.

Not that he really has to delve too far, especially with this one. Any woman abandoned at dinner because of an urgent text from his flatmate has a genuine reason to be pissed off. Once is a problem that can be solved with flowers and hot sex. Twice requires at least a bottle of something expensive and a promise of a more impressive date, say fourth row seats in the West End. Third time and walking out of Wicked because your clearly sadistic flatmate needs you to fetch him milk and the right sort of teabags ends with no talking, no sex and pretty much no girlfriend at all. John should be feeling much more upset about this than he is, but while girlfriends have come, (and definitely gone) Sherlock, bastard that he is, has been more than constant and in the small hours of the night John admits he's a lot more fun as well. Not that he's ever asked a girlfriend to go chasing over London in pursuit of a madman with a God complex, but he's fairly certain none of the ones he's dated would go. He's even more certain that they'd look at him the way Donovan look at Sherlock and John isn't quite ready for that level of rejection.

So instead he folds up his clothes neatly, rolling his pants inside his socks and stuffs a couple of shirts behind his wash bag. He checks the shoes on his feet and casually swipes them against the backs of his calves as he abandons the idea of taking a second pair. Sherlock said three days and he's fairly sure good walking shoes make a lot more sense than date shoes. If it's anything like normal, there won't be time to do anything more than look at the case and traipse after Sherlock. John admits freely that he's a little relieved that he doesn't have to worry about more than the two of them. If he can get through the next few days and make sure that food, sleep and not too many poisons are ingested, he'll consider it a win.

After stuffing a couple of pairs of jeans and a pair of trousers that will pass muster if they have to have dinner somewhere other than a cafe, John opens his top drawer and checks for the essentials. A quick scan of his passport neatly confirms it's in date, barely, so he scoops up what he can, wallet shoved in his back pocket and watch strapped round his wrist. He's about to close the drawer when he sighs and flips the condoms into his case as well. He drops his lucky pants on top of them and closes the lid with a thud, zippering everything into place before he looks round for the lock.

It isn't on top of the bureau where he knows it should be. It's not on the floor in front of or under the bureau where it could be and John scrubs both hands through his hair as he works through the possibilities. He hasn't used it since he took Megan to the Cotswolds for a less than dirty weekend and he definitely dumped it next to the silly little fridge magnet he picked up on the trip. While the sheep in lavender is still grinning up at him from its shiny surface, there's no sign of the sturdy combination lock he uses to keep his personal effects in tact.

"Cab's outside," says Sherlock from the door frame. While one hand grips the lintel, his feet are firmly outside, as though he has carefully structured at least one place John can keep to himself in 221B. He glances round the room and John has no doubt that the contents are being stored somewhere for later reference, unless they prove to be dull and need to be deleted in favour of yet another tobacco strand. On this occasion, John thinks he actually sees Sherlock wince, which is unfair, given that John is by default a tidier person physically than Sherlock is capable of being. No doubt this time he'll delete immediately, restoring the room in his head to an early and clearly preferable saved version. "We have to go now. Are you-," there's a huff and a notable wince. "John, are you really bringing that catastrophe with you?"

"It's a good case," says John and picks it up, hand gripping the fraying leather strap firmly. "It's seen me through several adventures."

"With what? A terrier?" Sherlock shakes his head briefly and gestures. "We're on a tight schedule. We can discuss your need for new luggage later."

"Fine, I'm ready," says John and worries his lip as he realises that he's still short one lock. "I'll pick one up at the airport."

"A lock?" his flatmate says as he heads down the stairs, nimbly picking up his own case as he tosses  a little metal something back at John. "Why bother when you have _such_ security in place?"

John catches the lock and frowns as he checks it's still working. "Did you take this?"

"I merely protected it for a little while," says Sherlock and gestures at John to get a move on. "In case of emergencies."

He exits and John pauses only briefly before he follows the man out to the waiting car, still puzzling over why Sherlock would consider it an emergency when the cab drives away and his thoughts are completely interrupted by the case that's dragging them to Copenhagen.

 

@@@@@

 

The journey passes uneventfully for them, though John wishes fervently that Sherlock hadn't spoken quite so loudly when others in the queue proved slightly less trustworthy. Had it not been for the two men targeted with drug possession and the elderly lady smuggling a pineapple, he's sure that he'd be spending his time in a little room explaining how his companion knows all these things. But with those others to occupy the customs officers, he and Sherlock slip through easily and he greets his battered old baggage at the other end, clasping it tightly as they head through the airport and into the cool night air Copenhagen has to offer.

He closes his eyes and smiles briefly, before he's yanked back harshly and stumbles back onto the kerb.

"You trying to have me over?" he demands before a bicycle nearly clips him. He staggers slightly but Sherlock has a firm grip on his jacket and John allows the detective to right him. He's vaguely aware that his flatmate is on occasion chivalrous but it's normally a ruse, and he isn't sure being manhandled immediately that they arrive is a good idea. "Where the bloody hell did they come from?"

"Point to note; bicycles are a very common mode of transport and standing in their lane is a very bad idea unless you like being knocked over."

John gathers himself, bats away Sherlock's hand and tugs his jacket back into place as he notices the lane clearly signed for bicycles. "Yes, well, you might have mentioned it earlier," he says and looks down the street at the swarm of them careening about the place. "I hope you're not planning for us to use them."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Hardly practical given your choice of footwear," he says and nods toward a line of taxis. "I suggest we take a more genial route to the hotel." He steps forward and smirks back over his shoulder. "I trust you can keep your eyes open long enough to get safely across the road."

John swallows but lets that one pass without comment as he follows his friend to the waiting car. And if he does almost get clipped again, he isn't letting that smug git know about it.

The cab takes them swiftly to the hotel and John stares up at the overhang, the building narrow as hell and the upper windows looming above him.

"It's to draw furniture up to the second floor," says Sherlock, rather too close to his ear. "Otherwise-"

"Yes, I do know," says John and turns his head. He blinks slightly, as he realises his nose is almost brushing Sherlock's cheek and takes a step back to compensate. "I did travel before I met you. I have got some clue about the world."

"Hmm," says Sherlock and pushes the door open. "Danish architecture and not local customs. How terribly dull your last trip over here must have been."

"How did you..." John stops and shakes his head. "Forget it, I don't want to know how you know. I just want something to eat and some sleep."

"You've already slept on the plane," says Sherlock and stands expectantly as John smiles at the receptionist and hands over their details. "Honestly, John, I worry about you."

"You? Worry about me?"

"Yes, John. Excessive sleeping can be a symptom of something else. For example, it could be indicative of a circadian rhythm disorder, or even-"

"Yes, thank you, doctor. I do not have a circadian rhythm disorder. It's not abnormal to need more than four hours sleep and with you I'm lucky if I get that." He smiles at the pretty girl behind the counter as she hands him their key and explains in delicately accented English that they're on the top floor and that the restaurant is closed for the night. "Let's just dump these in the room and find somewhere to eat. Your murders can wait that long, can't they?"

Sherlock nods assent as John opens the door. They step inside and both can appreciate that it's a well appointed little room with a clean and pretty washroom off to one side. The bedding is also very clean and well kept and even has a slightly manly air to the coverlet. There is, however, a slight issue in that the count of beds numbers one when the possible number of occupants is clearly two and at least one of them plans to sleep in it in only his pants.

John clears his throat and grips the handle of his case tighter. "I thought you said you'd booked a twin," he says and looks back at his flatmate and very quietly tries the term 'bedmate' on for size. "You said you'd sorted this." He shakes his head. "I must be mad. You said you'd sorted accommodation and I believed you. Clearly mad."

"Booking a twin is hardly the sort of thing you do in Copenhagen if you're looking for an unoccupied bedroom," says Sherlock drily. "I simply ordered a room for two men to share." He steps forward and gestures to the bed. "And you'll admit it is a sizable mattress."

"Well I'm not leaping in it with you," says John and shudders ever so slightly. "I wouldn't know what bits you'd leave on by morning."

"I'm hardly likely to experiment here," says Sherlock and gestures vaguely. "If it bothers you so much, we can find somewhere else. I wouldn't want to threaten your precious masculinity by suggesting we could share a bed without something untoward happening."

"Nothing untoward is happening," says John and doesn't quite meet Sherlock's gaze before he drops the case to the ground and huffs out a breath. Nothing untoward ever happens between them and he has no doubt that his repeated denials of their relationship to any and all who inquire are growing less emphatic. It's not that he minds anyone thinking that he might be gay, but it's all too often accepted as fact in front of the women he's tried to date. Worse still, Sherlock never denies anything at all and sometimes John thinks that he should just leap out at him naked, just to see if he'll still get that same bored reaction and reminder that Sherlock's mistress is the great adventure, the work and that John is simply a replacement skull to talk at.

He dumps his jacket, checks his pocket for his wallet again and turns back to Sherlock. "Food," he says. "You can fill me in when we're there."

He walks back out and heads to the stares and he thinks, but cannot swear that Sherlock murmurs something very quietly. It can't possibly be what he thinks he heard so, as he's done rather more frequently in the past few months, he ignores it but files the thought away for later consideration. After all, ' _I thought that was off the menu_ ,' is rather out of their usual repertoire and he can't quite help wondering if its only his own imagination that it sits in.

 

@@@@@

 

John rather enjoys walking along the bank as Sherlock details the history of the buildings they walk past. It's humid and his shirt is sticking to his back somewhat, but the city is a lively place in the dark and he quite enjoys listening to conversations he doesn't understand because it's in a different language, as opposed to some of the ones he has with Sherlock where they're arguably speaking the same one and he doesn't get it anyway. Everyone here seems abnormally good looking and the girls seem obsessed with black, but John doesn't mind in the slightest. He's a fan of all forms of beauty and a casual glance at Sherlock while he's gesturing to the statues on top of the building gives his heart the tiniest of jumps. Because here, as in London, Sherlock stands out. Not as a freak, but as something sculpted by a loving hand and therefore meant to be. He smiles at the thought and is a little shocked when Sherlock repeats his name loudly.

"Sorry, drifting there. What was that?"

"I said," says Sherlock drily, "that the difference between a gargoyle and a grotesque is while a gargoyle may be a grotesque, only a gargoyle spouts water."

"And of course, only a gargoyle appears in a Disney movie," says John as he looks up at the statues above them. "Who'd spend their time making something that ugly?"

"They're supposed to deflect evil," says Sherlock and smiles a little. "Somehow I don't think they're working, given the multiple murders in the past week."

"Maybe not, it's not like they've got tonnes of them," says John and drifts a little as they walk down to the harbour. Sherlock keeps talking and the tone is soothing while it's not yelling at him. He glances round at the scenery and idly kicks pebbles out of the way as he smells the water alongside them. This walk would be a lovely place for a date and tries to picture the last girlfriend walking with him here. Not in the heels she habitually wore, not a chance and he thinks he would only get ten yards before she whined and insisted they found somewhere to eat. And though he's hungry, a little bit of local knowledge _does_ spring to mind. "Can we see the Little Mermaid?"

"It's not the original," says Sherlock. "It's been stolen, hacked apart, replaced..."

"That's fine," says John. "I just want to see it."

"There are photographs everywhere," says Sherlock. "I'll get you one."

"I don't want a photo," says John. "I just want to go and see it. Go on, it'll be pretty at night."

Sherlock stares at him and then shakes his head. "I thought you were hungry."

"Yes, but we can grab something," he says and grins. "Come on, it's not like you're desperate for something and I want to go see the statue." He reaches back and his fingers brush the side of Sherlock's hand before he realises. He adjusts, moves quickly and tugs at Sherlock's cuff instead. "Live a little. Get your coat off and pretend you're a tourist."

Sherlock looks down at John's hand and his expression isn't quite clear. "We're here to solve a case. You do remember this, John?"

"Yes, sure, murders, no problem, but I want to see the statue first." He grins a little brighter. "There'll be a take-out place close by, we'll grab a burger or something."

"A burger?"

"Pizza then," says John. "It won't kill you." He tugs at Sherlock's coat again and with some reluctance the detective removes it and folds it carefully over one arm. His shirt's snug and John's amused to note that Sherlock's sweating even more profusely than he is. "You should have left that at the hotel."

"I didn't know you were so desperate to turn tourist then," says Sherlock, but he does keeps step with John easily, his hand brushing the back of John's as they walk. "I wouldn't have pictured you as a Hans Christian Andersen fan."

"I'm not sure I am," says John and glances down. The back of his hand keeps communicating little pulses of heat when Sherlock's skin brushes his. It's not as though they've never touched before. They touch all the time, mostly when John roughly thrusts something at him that Sherlock demands. And Sherlock is always pushing John in one direction or other. It shouldn't be a big deal at all. It's only a brush of skin on skin and not exactly naughty skin at that. It doesn't explain the near giddiness John feels, or the sudden urge he has to giggle. He bites it down as much as he can before Sherlock clears his throat.

"John, I'm not sure what you find amusing about our surroundings but-"

"Nothing," says John and smirks, head shaking before he looks back up at the detective again. "I was just trying to imagine you eating pizza."

"I've eaten pizza before," huffs Sherlock. "It's hardly a novelty."

"You've eaten pizza?" John shakes his head. "What do you have on it?"

"Not anchovies," says Sherlock, wrinkling his nose. "Nor pepperoni. Anything else is fine."

"Really?" asks John. "You've never had one when we've eaten together."

"Yes, well there were years before you arrived to save me from cheap American food," says Sherlock and hefts his coat up a little higher. "Now come along, let's get you to your precious statue."

With that, Sherlock slides his free hand to the small of John's back and pushes lightly. It's not quite anything other than an innocent move, but John's more aware than ever that he's hot and that the cotton of his shirt is damp with sweat. It makes it feel insubstantial and he's conscious of the long fingers pressing against his spine, stroking lightly as he moves him along and John's cheek dimples slightly. He's in a foreign land with his electric best friend and those dextrous fingers are making him quite lightheaded. He gives an involuntary shiver and turns lightly at the low chuckle.

"What? I'm ticklish."

"Really? Interesting," says Sherlock and rubs the pads of his fingers in a small circle. John bucks slightly and steps away. "I hadn't realised you were so easily distracted."

John winces and pulls his sticky shirt away from his skin. "Distracted from what."

Sherlock sweeps his arm round. "There are at least five women who've looked at you with interest along this path alone and you haven't even offered that smile of yours to any of them."

"Really?" John shakes his head. "Well, you said there was a case. Tight schedule."

"And you said you wanted to see a fake statue." Sherlock draws himself up and strides forward, leaving John to scurry a little to catch up. "I suppose if someone else dies tonight it'll present more data. Why don't you try to distract me a little in the meantime?"

"I'm sorry?" John frowns as he gets closer. "Distract you?"

"Yes, don't repeat what I say so often, John, it's quite unnecessary. "You've been here before. Why don't you tell me why you didn't see your statue that time? School trip?"

John nods. "Fourth year," he says and matches Sherlock's stride with an easy gait of his own. "Shared a room with Kevin Patterson and spent most of the time trying to get Karen Smith to let me snog her."

"Unsuccessfully, of course."

"Not quite of course." John shrugs. "She kept saying she'd meet me and we'd go down to the statue together and..."

"And no doubt let you put your hands where they shouldn't be." He smiles and nods toward the jutting rock ahead. "So is this your attempt to right a wrong?"

"Hmm?"

"Seeing your statue in the moonlight," says Sherlock. "Fulfilling those teenage ambitions."

"Well since they involved getting my hand up Karen's shirt, I'm going with no," says John and frowns. "You haven't arranged for her to be here?"

"Certainly not."

"Good."

"Although I am intrigued, John. I wouldn't have picked you as a romantic."

"I'm as romantic as the next man," says John and realises who he's standing next to. "Some men anyway. What about you? Didn't you ever tried to get some...one to meet up with you for a snog back then?"

"Not really my area," murmurs Sherlock and smiles lightly. "So that's how it's done, is it? You take your intended to a foreign land, suggest you meet somewhere of note to impress them and hope the scenery will positively affect their hormones enough to make them amenable? Then you use the opportunity to overwhelm them to stick your tongue down their throat."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I think when I'm trying to get off with someone," says John and looks back at the curve of that smile. It's odd because although he has seen Sherlock smile before, many times, he's only really caught the edges of it when it's aimed at him. He reserves the cheap manipulative smile for others and it's only the select are treated to the real thing. John's seen it enough times to recognise it as genuine, but it's often dropped away from Sherlock's face before he can get a good look at it. Here it's lingering and if he walks a little closer to his friend, John doesn't really notice.

He's spent enough time not being happy not to question when he is.

 

@@@@@

 

They walk to the edge of the harbour and John stops off at the little hut to pick up slices of pizza and overpriced water. He piles his purchases carefully, along with a handful of napkins for the mess he knows he's likely to make of himself. John turns toward the statue, prepared to listen to Sherlock complain about time wasted here when they're supposed to be concentrating on the case that's brought them out here.

He's prepared for that, but he really isn't ready to see that his detective has laid out his coat inside out on the base of a rock and is currently sprawled easily on the fabric. He isn't at all prepared to see one long leg stretched out and the other cocked, his forearm resting lightly over his knee as he looks out beyond the pretty statue to where the water rolls over the horizon. And John definitely isn't ready for Sherlock to hand over money to the man who walks round selling little trinkets.

John glances back over his shoulder in case someone is filming this and he's a part of a joke no-one bothered to tell him about. But the people behind him seem interested only in each other and in the spirit of the detective's work, he can't help wondering if he's ruled out the impossible here. With a frown etched across his face he walks over and sits down, bum perched on the edge of the coat with a substantial space between them.

"Here we are," he says and passes over cup and food, dumping the napkins in an untidy pile on the rock. "No anchovies, no pepperoni."

Sherlock looks over the slice before he bites in, jaw working steadily at the crust as he turns away and offers up his profile to John's gaze. That long line of neck has always looked in the need of some kind of tender attention and it isn't the first time John's had that particular thought. However, like the tumble of observations that flit through his brain every day, he's never quite allowed it to settle before. He isn't quite sure he's letting it settle now, but it seems reasonable enough to look when Sherlock isn't and he bites into his slice and swallows eagerly, groaning when his belly rumbles lessen.

"I've been here before," says Sherlock absently and John looks over.

"When?"

"Lower sixth. I didn't share and no doubt Karen Smith was already occupied at that point."

"And you didn't know her."

"No."

John nods at that and puts the pizza down carefully, wiping his fingers clean as he considers. "But you came down here."

"I didn't know it was a replica back then," says Sherlock and gestures to the statue. "The model was a ballerina, you know? But she wouldn't pose nude for the body so Jacobson's wife stood in for her. What an amalgamation; wife, lover and fish."

"Lover?" asks John and Sherlock arches an eyebrow at him. "Right, lover. So you came down here to look at a statue on your own?"

"Obviously."

John frowns at the idea, trying to conjure up the image of a teenage Sherlock striding out purposefully toward the edge of the harbour, to look at a statue of something out of a fairytale. He really can't quite work out why the man would actually want to do that and can't imagine why the boy he was would needed to see it. He knows a little about Hans Christian Andersen but can't quite see the connection or the draw and this oddly intimate little setting feels more intense than their flat, where the possibility of more is always there but not addressed. Here, out in the open, he feels as though they're less restricted and he's curious to understand what might be lingering in that brilliant brain. "Why?"

"The story, John. It's a love letter."

"It's got singing fish."

"Not the Disney version." Sherlock huffs. "The original. It's unrequited love for Andersen's friend, Collin, and it ends in hope." He smiles absently and then shrugs his shoulders. "A dangerous disadvantage, I've always thought so and here's the proof."

"A statue of a mermaid?"

"A copy of a statue of a mermaid created by a man whose lover refused to reveal her breasts to his art, a mermaid who sacrifices everything not just for love of a single man but for the world entire. She gave up a chance for happiness to become a daughter of the air, a being whose entire existence and entry to heaven depends on making children behave well and be happy." He shakes his head. "Dastardly to make any child reader believe her happiness is dependent on their ability to tidy their toys away."

John nods and then clears his throat. "So the breasts aren't working for you then."

"No, John. They are not. And they're not working for you, either. This isn't pornography, it's art of a sort and your eyes dilated more when I touched your back than looking at granite cleavage."

"Oh," says John and tilts his head slightly. "You were looking at my eyes when you touched my back."

"I always look at you," says Sherlock and gestures toward the statue again. "So you're here. Is it all you expected to be?"

"Well to be fair I didn't think I'd be here with you."

"Yes, you had in mind Miss Smith and her accessible shirt," says Sherlock and moves ever so slightly closer. "But, you didn't have your date then. The experience is considerably different."

"Well yeah, says John. "I didn't come down here waiting for the lecture." He pauses, considering and looks back at Sherlock. "Didn't have my date then? Meaning that now..."

"Now you have me," says Sherlock and pouts slightly. "And I do not lecture. I may elaborate, but it's perfectly acceptable to give additional information to those without it."

"Yeah," says John and looks at the outstretched fingers on the silky lining of Sherlock's coat. It sounds almost crazy but he really needs the clarification. "Sherlock, is this a date?"

"Of course it's a date," says Sherlock quickly and when John just stares, he sighs and moves all evidence of their feast to one side. He sets the red candle he bought from the traveling vendor on the edge of the rock to the side of them and lights it. "Does that help?"

"Sure," says John and lifts a hand, trying to clear the fuzziness. "Sorry, I don't think I'm getting this. We're down here on a date?"

"You're repeating me again, John."

"Yeah, but I want to be really clear about this. We're here on a date. In Copenhagen. Next to the Little Mermaid statue and you're fine about this?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Well, why else would I bring you to Denmark?"

"You said there was a case!"

"Of course there isn't a case," says Sherlock. "Why would the Danish police contact me for multiple murders? Preposterous!"

"There isn't..." John shakes his head and catches a look from a passing tourist. She smiles at him, not suggestively but at the picture they make - late night picnic by candlelight. "You dragged me to Denmark for what, exactly? Everyone always thinks I'm your date back home. Angelo's nearly begging for it to be true!"

"You said you wanted to get away from home," says Sherlock reasonably. "I merely checked online for a late deal and Copenhagen seemed reasonable. It's a definite advantage that you have sentimental attachments to the area, but I'm quite certain that this is something you would have enjoyed even without it." He smiles easily and reaches out to brush his fingertips along the edge of John's palm. John's fingers curl in against it and he maintains eye contact. "I haven't heard any real objections."

"No real objections, right," says John and nods as he tries to work this through. "Sherlock, we've never discussed this. I mean, you said you weren't interested and I've told everyone in the world I'm straight."

"Semantics," says Sherlock and glides his fingertip to John's pulse. "Elevated."

"Of course it bloody is! I'm out here on a date with someone who hasn't even asked me and is my barmy best mate! If it wasn't elevated, I'd be dead!" John takes a quick breath and looks back down at his hand where it's being touched. "So the bed? That's your idea? You set that up?"

"It's an advantage."

"And then we're down here eating pizza and you're touching me. Sherlock, you're touching me." He looks back up and John feels both fluttery and as though he may have walked into Wonderland and not noticed. "So...fine. We're on a date."

"Finally," says Sherlock and licks over his bottom lip. "I won't raise any objections if you want to put your hand up my shirt. You have a deft touch, I'd be delighted to feel it."

"On you," says John and nods before he turns his hand over and carefully, deliberately tests out holding Sherlock's hand in his own. "I didn't think I was gay. No, I was fairly sure I'm not gay because..."

"Because you sleep with women? Oh, honestly, John. That's the sort of reasoning Anderson produces."

"I'm not fucking Anderson."

"I should think not," says Sherlock and edges closer still, his fingers still moving lightly over John's wrist. "I think I've fulfilled my part of this arrangement."

"Well, yeah," says John and gestures wildly. "Romantic setting, you've fed me and there's another bloody candle."

"You really are quite excitable tonight," says Sherlock. "And sarcastic. Is this why things haven't worked for you before when on a date?"

"I'm usually more aware that I'm on one," huffs John and looks out at the sea before he turns back to his companion. His date. He tries it on for size and finds that it's not quite as surprising as the amount of effort Sherlock has put in to setting this up. This from a man so incapable of organising his own groceries to ensure there's enough milk in the fridge. It's a lot to take on and he works through the problems with military efficiency. "You stole my lock."

"I wanted to know what you brought," says Sherlock and leans in closer. "I approve of the pants, by the way. Excellent colour with your skin tone. But the condoms, John. We're only here three days and given your usual pattern, we wouldn't be looking at that until sometime next week."

"Right," says John and nods before he can take in a little more. Sherlock's dangerously close now, skin standing out, almost ethereal in the flickering glow of the candle. "I thought you said love's a dangerous disadvantage?"

"It is," says Sherlock. "But then mine appears to come with boundless nerve and a Sig Sauer. I think the advantage may yet be mine."

John grins. "It's a reasonable point," he says and takes a quick breath. "Never dated a bloke before."

"I gather," says Sherlock. "But, aside from a slight adjustment for body type, I think you may well find it's far simpler and better in the long run. I don't wear ridiculous high heels, I don't expect you to bring me flowers or watch tedious musicals and of course your major obsession is exactly fine with me."

"My major obsession?"

"Being with me, of course," says Sherlock and grins widely before he leans in. "I think this could be very dangerous, John." He presses a feather light kiss against the side of John's mouth. "Think about it. You'll have an entire new way to keep me from getting bored."

John closes his eyes at the touch of Sherlock's lips against his skin and then grins widely. It's not that things have suddenly become simple in the slightest and he isn't entirely certain that he knows everything that's going on. There is, however, a definite kind of freedom in allowing Sherlock to tend to him for a change and he can't deny that his pulse is racing at the attention he's getting. "Well, I suppose we could try it out."

"You're very generous," says Sherlock and moves.

Whatever it was that John planned to say is rather swallowed up by the touch of those firm lips against his own. There's a touch of stubble and a brief clashing of teeth before he can shift and slide his hand against the rumpled curls at Sherlock's temple. Then it's fine, just fine, because his eyes are closed and the mouth against his own is wicked and brilliant and John hasn't wanted to linger in the moment for a very long time indeed. Because he's on a date with a genius who owns a candle and thinks nothing of whisking him out of the city for something interesting. He can't wait to find out what the next interesting thing is going to be.

John Watson feels that today he is thoroughly done with women.

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Terrible things appear to happen to the Little Mermaid statue. It seems that John and Sherlock caught it on a good day!


End file.
